


Gratitude

by GoldenThreads



Series: A Soft Seduction [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Attempted Seduction, Courting Rituals, Drinking & Talking, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Hair Braiding, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Time Skip, Romantic Fluff, background edel/F!byleth and petra/dorothea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-23 17:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20344273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenThreads/pseuds/GoldenThreads
Summary: “You, dear Ferdie, want to hear athank youfor every single thing you do. Every. Single. Thing.” Dorothea wagged a finger at him with each word, then shrugged. “Hubie would rather eat his shoe than hear the words.”“No one has ever thanked him?” Ferdinand asked, face twisting with such affronted shock that she may as well have slandered his favorite horse.Ferdinand embarks on a seduction (?).





	1. Chapter 1

“I don’t understand how you’ve known the man your entire life—” 

“No, no, I had a blessed five years of innocence before he first darkened my playroom door,” Ferdinand argued from the couch, waving the dregs of his glass in her direction with meaning. “I scarcely appreciated them, but I had them.”

Dorothea raised her voice over his mournful reminiscing, “Your _entire_ life, darling, without realizing how simple he is to deal with.”

_“Simple?”_ he hissed, appalled, and tried to rise up from the comfortable cocoon of blankets and cloaks around him. His limbs too weary, his head spinning too fast, he soon sagged back with a wary frown.

After five long years of wartime practice, they’d honed their little trysts into an art. At each battle’s end, if Ferdinand found himself still breathing, he inevitably decamped to Dorothea’s quarters to check for similar signs of life—or, as she called it, _make rumors._ If anyone wandered in and found Ferdinand in his tipsy dishabille, down to his shirtsleeves and serenading her with sappy opera lyrics from shows that went out of style before her birth, they’d have a lot of explaining to do. But no one ever had.

More than anything, it softened the edges of a world Dorothea loathed beyond bearing. They took to the stage, followed their orders, bloodied their hands and their hearts, and then collapsed back into a makeshift dressing room after the show, letting their costumes fall where they may, sinking into plush chairs and couches to laugh away a dim reality for five minutes more. He could’ve been any stagehand that had ever taken a shine to her, any fellow actress desperate to escape her life. That was what Dorothea reminded herself, every time she found his laughter a little too necessary to her well-being. It could’ve been anyone. It just happened to be him.

She poured herself another glass of their hard-earned wine, purchased with their pooled earnings since Prime Minister paid as much as civilian collaborator these days. “Painfully, embarrassingly simple. Hubie would be aghast if he knew.”

Despite himself, Ferdinand leaned forward in anticipation of every secret. The man was so blessedly easy. 

“You, dear Ferdie, want to hear a _thank you_ for every single thing you do. Every. Single. Thing.” She wagged a finger at him with each word, then shrugged. “Hubie would rather eat his shoe than hear the words.” 

“No one has ever thanked him?” Ferdinand asked, face twisting with such affronted shock that she may as well have slandered his favorite horse. 

Dorothea watched her jab at his attention-seeking ways sail right on over his head, and she giggled into her palm. Before, he would’ve thrown back his shoulders and made some disparaging comment about how Hubert’s job deserved to be thankless. Now his ears perked up every time you said the man’s name, as if he could barely restrain himself from singing Hubert’s praises and jumped at every sanctioned opportunity to do so. But put them in the same room, and it was a back alley cockfight all over again. 

War wasn’t the time for pining. Lucky for her, backstage at the opera was a different story. 

“He prides himself on being taken for granted, no?” she pressed cheerily. As she set her drink aside, she pulled her knees up to her chest and tucked her chin on top, the picture of sisterly innocence. “Edie told me she used to try, but he’d get so uncomfortable if she so much as pointed out what a good job he did shining her shoes. He just wants to be a—” Dorothea stumbled on a laugh, the pieces all sliding into place. “—good little worker bee.”

Ferdinand’s brows furrowed as he tried to follow her explanation though his fog. Bless him, he always was a lightweight. “I thought I was the bee.”

“You can both be annoying insects with wee stingers, Ferdie.”

He groaned at the pun even as a blush nipped at his cheeks and ears. “Hush.”

“Drones together,” she sighed. “Serving the same queen. So romantic.”

“Hush, Dorothea!” 

He snapped loud enough that it startled them both, and for a moment she thought he might—what, throw a pillow at her? Perhaps he was questioning the nobility of the action, for she could see the thoughts whirling about in his head.

“Sorry,” he offered a moment later, gaze meeting hers firmly. “I was—That was out of line, I expect. I am trying to have an important thought and your songs are too swift for me.”

Dorothea smiled, stood, and went to pour them some water as she gave him a moment’s peace. But only a moment. Soon enough she found herself humming under her breath, letting her magic cool the glasses to a more refreshing temperature. Usually it was the arias that curled themselves into her mind and flourished, cherished, therein. Now it was the memory of a recitativo that caught her fancy.

_“Ah, leave me!”_ She nudged his dress coat over the edge of the couch to make room for herself amid the chaos. “Flee the dread effect of a distracted love! Close those windows, I hate the light, I hate the air I breathe, I hate myself! Who mocks at my grief? Who consoles me?” 

Ferdinand accepted the glass of water, as well as her feet making themselves comfortable in his lap a moment later. And then she finally won a smile from him, tired and fond. “Ah, fly, leave me alone, for pity’s sake!”

“I _knew_ you’d know that one.”

“For pity’s sake,” he repeated softly, holding the cool glass against the side of his overheated cheek. 

“I won’t mention it if it distresses you so.” Dorothea ran a hand through her hair, making herself seem half-interested instead of desperately concerned. “But I think we both know it is not a passing fancy, that torch you hold.” She could see it all too easily in truth, Ferdinand holding the torch and wandering off into the darkness alone, as long as it lit the way for Hubert and Edelgard to follow. Such courtly love, its name never spoken. Utter rubbish.

With a wave of his hand, Ferdinand brushed away her concerns. “There’s a war on. I am not such a fool.”

_Yes, there’s a war on, and tomorrow might be too late._ She sighed and reached to fiddle with the longest waves of his hair. “That’s what you always tell me when I ask to braid this. _There’s a war on, Dorothea._ And every day I only want to braid it more.” She raised an eyebrow meaningfully.

Ferdinand flushed and cleared his throat. “Enough of that. A moment of seriousness—only a moment, I beg of you.” 

“Whatever you want, Ferdie.”

“…Someone needs to thank him. Someone must.”

“He doesn’t _want_ your thanks.” Dorothea reached out to draw a finger down the severe furrow growing between Ferdinand’s brows. “And now you’ll say it’s a matter of honor, that a noble receive the gratitude that is his due, blah blah blah. Just…”

That was the point when a real, true friend would have offered their honest advice, would have at least paused to consider that this particular man with this particular affliction of affection required a serious plan of action, and would have absolutely never given in to petty frustrations of their own.

What Dorothea said instead was, “Oh, just kneel for him and get it over with already!”

And the glass slipped from Ferdinand’s fingers. 

The world slipped a bit sideways after that. Ferdinand wrenched his shoulder diving for the glass, her feet still caught in his lap, the sheets and pillows and scarves all giving way until they found themselves on the floor, freezing water dripping from Dorothea’s skirts as she ruined her voice on peals of giddy laughter. Goddess, just one look at him with a sopping wet shirt and his face as red as his untied cravat, and she could feed for a week on her mirth.

Ferdinand finally managed to cover his face with one hand, having to blot out the sight before his own laughter bubbled free.

Before Dorothea could stand and put them to rights, or rather to drape herself across the couch and sing another line of pointed romance, a hesitant knock on the door shocked them all into sudden silence.

“H-hello? It’s Bernie!! Are you okay? I heard a crash, and, and if you need any help—”

Ferdinand scrambled to his feet, and Dorothea let him, saint that she was. She even tried not to fall back into giggles as he patted down his chest and thighs, pulling at the angles of the fabric, trying hopelessly to look presentable if they were to invite another lady into the room—and then, that flash of delightful horror, when he realized there was _already_ a lady in the room.

“Come in!” Dorothea called, grinning brightly and stretching her arms along the length of the couch behind her. She draped herself, mess and all, into a picture of such glorious decadence it couldn’t help but make Ferdinand squirm. 

Bernadetta scarcely opened the door a crack, but it was enough for her to slip through. She froze two steps inside. “Were you…having a party?” she asked cautiously, eyes darting from the bottle of wine to the mess of the couch. 

Dorothea cut in smoothly before Ferdinand could stammer out his explanations. “Just what we need, another opinion! I was just telling Ferdie that he’s going about things all wrong. Bernie, if you really, really wanted to thank someone, someone you absolutely _adored,_ wouldn’t you drop to your knees?”

Behind her, Ferdinand made a wheezing noise, like an old man taking his final breath, or like he wanted to throw down the gauntlet and challenge her to a duel for his honor, but had misplaced his glove and needed at least five cups of tea to settle his delicate nerves first.

“I’d probably, um, try getting them a present first…? Unless, oh!” Bernadetta brought her hands together and clutched them to her chest. “Is Ferdinand trying to propose?”

“Ladies, it has been a delight! Thank you for the opinion, Bernadetta. I fear I must be leaving, however, and—” Ferdinand’s voice steadied as he went along, grabbing his things and regaining his composure if not his usual coloring. He pointedly did not look at Dorothea and her renewed shrieks of laughter. 

Bernadetta caught him by the hem of his hastily gathered coat as he passed. “Oh! But Ferdinand, you’ve torn the seam here, see?”

“Went down on his knees with too much enthusiasm,” Dorothea managed to choke out.

“Goodnight!” Ferdinand squeaked, as noble as could be, and fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorothea: Bernie you should DEFINITELY tell everyone that Ferdie's gonna propose to me  
Bernie: How about I don't do that!!!
> 
> The selection that Dorothea sings is from Mozart's 'Così fan tutte.'


	2. Chapter 2

Nobody called it a victory parade. A homecoming at best, it lacked all the regular trappings of an imperial triumph: no commemorative tokens cast into the cheering crowds, no painted landscapes of foreign cities burning, no bread and circuses. Hubert had ridden back to Enbarr a week early to orchestrate the event and rework the parade route away from the ancestral paths – the ceremonial stops to the Ministerial Mausoleums had to go – and towards the civic landmarks instead, all finally leading to the military barracks where they would lay down their weaponry and close the doors of war. 

The public doors, at least. They had much to do.

That the parade route skirted the network of internal guard towers was not a happy accident; every bend of the route could be watched from above. As the procession of exhausted troops lurched back to their temporary housing amid the bustling, hollering crowds, Hubert himself proceeded from one tower to the next, feeling his way through the tripwires he’d set for those who slither in the dark. If they dared do anything publicly, this was the moment.

It appeared they didn’t dare. The day was bright, humid, and terribly boring, redeemed only by the brief glimpses he got of Edelgard outshining everyone else below.

Traditionally, the returning Emperor rode on horseback; the elderly or their impudent spawn in chariots, as needed. Edelgard walked. She’d always refused to rise too far above the path he’d lain for her, and stubborn as ever, she wouldn’t distance herself from it now. Her inner circle walked with her, Byleth on one side and—Hubert frowned, peering closer—Dorothea on the other. There should have been a knight riding in state at her side, leading the formation and feeding off the attention that was his due. But the only horse was Bernadetta’s, which kept up the rear as the young woman struggled to hold Edelgard’s standard against the wind.

Perhaps he had ridden on ahead. Hubert shrugged off the thought.

The parade veered to the east through a particularly underdeveloped area of the city, its buildings all low and the streets narrow and unpaved. Difficult to navigate for those on the ground, but a delight with an eagle’s vantage, so much spread out in one breathtaking view. Only one guard tower flanked the area, and as Hubert ascended the steps, he caught sight of Petra wheeling on her wyvern in the sky above. They’d _discussed_ the appropriateness of Brigid’s heir taking part in such a matter of national pride, but it appeared Edelgard had declined to take his position – or else Petra had deliberately misinterpreted the request. Still, her senses were sharp. She could likely handle the watch on her own, without Hubert dragging himself between these harrowing perches all the day long. 

That would only leave him free to ride at Edelgard’s side with the standard, hemmed in by the unpredictable rabble for hours in the sun. He’d rather decline that honor.

Hubert crested the endless steps and paused on the last one, catching a whisper of song. The wide balcony overlooking the city was already occupied by a man fifteen stories higher then he ought to be. Leaning against the stone wall on crossed elbows like an aesthete transfixed at the opera, he sang something under his breath, the words lost to the roar of the crowd. 

“Ferdinand.”

The man hummed in recognition, but didn’t tear his eyes away from the spectacle below, as if for once unaware that he was the only spectacle worth watching. He’d traded his garish Prince Charming outfit for the sleek Prime Minister blacks he spent weeks designing in the margins of his notes at the peace talks. When Edelgard caught him out, instead of delivering the verbal lashing he rightly deserved for such insolence, she’d traded workpapers so he could prepare rebuttals on her proposals before that evening’s discussion. Hubert declined to comment when she sketched over the designs in turn. There were more pressing matters.

And yet—in the delicate trim of that collar, the clear signs of Bernadetta’s embroidery curling tenderly at his throat; the subdued yet fanciful ruffle of his cravat, an obvious allusion to styles popularized on the stage and never once carried off it; the sash that crossed his chest in mirror of their school days, empty now of all medals and awards save the tokens given him by Edelgard and his own cavalry troops. Even the small slips of red detail matched the Emperor’s own ceremonial dress; she had clearly offered her own tailor for the majority of the work. An effort of so many hands.

Hubert had never heard a word of any of it. He was not, of course, necessary to such banal matters as household attire; the Minister of the Imperial Household had not lowered himself to such things in many generations. But Ferdinand, who elicited his opinion on damn near everything from the growing conditions of Morfis plums to where to acquire the softest calfskin gloves, had said not a single word on the matter. Not even over tea, when Ferdinand stretched the conversation far beyond its necessary bounds. The knowledge settled heavy in his chest, like the over-steeped leaves his companion so praised.

The breeze swept in to kiss at the few loose strands of Ferdinand’s goldenrod hair, otherwise carefully pinned and tied back at the nape of his neck. He drank in the sunshine like it burned for him alone, sustained for all by the soft curl of his lips as he surveyed Edelgard’s parade. Wistful? No, the word did not suit. With his easy, open posture and fond gaze, there was no question of him coveting Edelgard’s spotlight. 

Maybe, with the right knowledge, with a truly objective mind, there never had been. Hubert did not regret the years of distrust, every barbed lash of it well-earned, but there was something to be said about exceeding expectations…and something further about the precious, jarring shock of having Ferdinand there at all. Perhaps that something _needed_ to be said. 

Ferdinand was always the sort that needed things spelled out for him, after all.

Hubert stepped to the shaded side of the balcony, angling himself to watch Edelgard’s procession. This conversation would be a pointless distraction; to have her in sight kept his feet beneath him, even at such a dizzying distance.

“I must admit,” Hubert began, oddly gratified when Ferdinand’s gaze slid to his at once, “I never expected you to be here.”

“Basking in the shade instead of sweltering in my armor?” Ferdinand rolled his eyes. “Not another day more. I have had my fill of it.”

“You’ll be back in the saddle by week’s end.”

“Yes. In my riding kit as an actual man, not a—a Hresvelg sausage crammed into a horse-propelled torture chamber.” He laughed at the memory of the many rants he’d given on that very topic. He much preferred collecting heavy armor to wearing it, as it turned out.

They had gotten rather off track. Much as Hubert would rather banter about that longed for riding kit, to accept the coward’s path was unacceptable. 

“Still. I did not mean the balcony.” Hubert nearly sighed, catching the disgustingly fond whisper of it behind his teeth at the last moment. He turned and gestured to the world below, jerked back from the edge with a sudden step that he effortlessly smoothed into an even more emphatic display of _everything_ Ferdinand had stayed for. 

“We gave you no reason to stay,” he continued before Ferdinand could get a word of confusion in. His attention caught on one of the baubles on Ferdinand’s sash, a medal that Edelgard had scrapped together before a particularly worrisome battle and given him as a good luck charm. They’d stripped every ounce of power, money, and respectability from the man, then given him a child’s paltry tokens in their place. Hubert stared at it alone and did not risk a glance to Ferdinand’s face. “Yet here you are.”

Ferdinand’s fingers rolled themselves into fists, clenched once, and eased back to his sides. He took a step forward. “I did not particularly care for the world our fathers schemed for, you know.” His voice was tight with—hurt? “I simply had not your imagination—”

“You misunderstand,” Hubert cut in. It was his error. He’d broached the topic too closely to the way he once questioned Ferdinand’s loyalty, all suspicion at the man’s reasons for serving. Those days were long past, but the echo rang quite clear.

“You confuse.” Ferdinand accompanied his neat riposte with a grin so broad it drew Hubert’s attention away from his collarbone. 

Magnetism was a dangerous trait to allow in a Prime Minister, Hubert tried to remind himself. It sounded as hollow as it felt. After staring at each other a beat too long, a hair too sharp, Hubert relaxed just enough to lean his back against the wall behind him. He scowled. “I am trying to thank you, you miserable ingrate.”

For some inexplicable reason, those simple words made Ferdinand stop breathing.

_“Goddess,”_ Ferdinand wheezed, choking on a torrent of laughter so loud it would’ve drawn heads on the streets below if not for the celebratory commotion. “I need—_ha!_ I need you to take that back. I want no thanks from you, not _here.”_

Hubert stiffened, rage singing like ice in his spine. “Very well. But don’t expect to hear it from Lady Edelgard.”

Ferdinand choked, and in a moment he’d dropped his head to rest on the cool stone of the balcony rail, shoulders trembling with unconstrained mirth. 

His peculiar hysterics dragged on so long that all the anger melted out of Hubert, that he even began to wonder if someone had drugged the man, stepping nearer with a faint recover spell tingling in his fingertips. Ferdinand waved him off, then caught him by the wrist, using his grasp on Hubert to pull himself halfway back to rights. A smile of such unabashed affection flickered through his sparkling eyes that Hubert nearly stopped breathing himself.

“Have a drink with me tonight. A real drink, to celebrate. Tomorrow you can return to your nefarious plots, but tonight…” Ferdinand beamed again, and it was too much.

“Clearly you’ve had enough for the day already.”

“My apologies. Dorothea has been berating me on the topic of proper thanksgiving. It seems my thoughts are much besieged with her…jests.” He bit back another smile, but stranger this time, strained in a way Hubert couldn’t categorize. 

Or didn’t want to categorize. “I confess I haven’t yet inquired after the last week’s social developments.”

Ferdinand’s grin slipped, and his head turned the same way as Hubert’s stomach. “Developments?”

“Are congratulations in order? I know you intend to ask Dorothea for her hand.” Another thing Ferdinand had never consulted him on, never mentioned in their chats. If he hadn’t had his quarters above her at the monastery, if Bernadetta hadn’t spilled the beans on upcoming nuptials, even he would never have put the pieces together. 

“That would be a difficult endeavor,” Ferdinand quipped in a strained voice, “Seeing as she’s headed to Brigid within the month.”

“Ah. My regrets for reopening the wound.”

Ferdinand looked down, to where he still hadn’t dropped his hold on Hubert’s wrist. His expression was unreadable. “There is no wound of that sort, Hubert. I will grieve such a friend leaving my side, but I shall simply send her so many letters that she is overwhelmed. She will be forced to come see me again in person to ask me to cease. And so the cycle will continue. She is dear to me, but I have never wished her to be mine.”

The exquisite warmth of Ferdinand’s hand, even with layers of fabric in between, was unbearable. Hubert cleared his throat and did not pull away. “I see.”

They said nothing for a long moment, until Ferdinand’s attention flicked to the parade below. “…They have moved on. You must fly to your next perch if you are to maintain your eagle eye.”

If only he’d routed the parade to circle this tower again and again and again. Hubert clamped down on the thought as soon as it appeared. Absolute nonsense. He gave Ferdinand a nod, stepped away, and headed for the door.

At the threshold, Hubert cast a glance back at Ferdinand lingering by the balcony, sun-kissed and looking to all the world like the spare of an unmatched set. “Tonight. My parlor?” They had yet to open the other ministerial quarters, but he’d been using his own set as a regional base of operations for the duration of the war. Only in the last week had he thought to make them anything but sparse. Ferdinand’s sense for decoration might provide some needed levity.

All at once, Ferdinand lit up with joy. “Then I shall bring wine by your rooms—ah! I know not your preference!”

Hubert left Ferdinand to his newest dilemma without another word. Whatever the man chose would suit.

It was the company that mattered, not the grapes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorothea: We planted the seeds and he FAILED to take the bait  
Edelgard: Literally paid my tailor to use the same bolts of fabric as Hubert's suit comes from and he didn't notice??? Some fucking spymaster. Fired.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy gosh y'all...thank you so much for the kudos and comments!! I've been writing this in between exam cramming, so, uh, VINDICATION.

Damn Dorothea, she’d made him late for his own—

_Date? _

Ferdinand shook the echo of her voice from his ear, dashing through the back gardens that led to the imperial palace. She’d dragged him to a more private reception at the Mittlefrank headquarters as soon as she escaped the more unruly soldiers’ celebrations at the barracks. Expecting a fine society affair like the opera outings of his youth, Ferdinand hadn’t changed out of his professional dress—the one that Hubert hadn’t spared a single comment on, curse the man—and waltzed right into a carnival with Dorothea on one arm and Petra the other. 

That was the other side of the opera, he supposed—the part he’d gotten the slightest glimpse of on those tired nights recuperating in Dorothea’s room. He wasn’t at all prepared. Half of the women (and nearly _all_ of the men) were dressed as they might at a gentlemen’s club in the seedier end of town, but they had none of the frustrations of work and nasty clients to drag them down, they were simply themselves and so brightly alive that jealousy burned in his blood, and he could scarcely protest when Dorothea beckoned them forward.

In hindsight, perhaps he should not have introduced himself. Dorothea certainly did not name him. The moment _von Aegir_ came out of his fool mouth, he was no longer a starstruck observer but a steak glistening on a golden platter. Petra rescued him no less than eleven times; one did not simply _push_ a lady away, even if she were leaving the red of her lips on your prim white collar, and he had not the heart nor the wisdom to withdraw. 

At some point Dorothea must have taken pity, for the tenor of his pursuit changed. Petra handed him off to a group of understudies who chatted his ear off about his dreams, his motivations—oh Goddess, it was the opera they were planning for Edelgard, and he’d opened his mouth _again_—and then passed him like a prop to a circle of would-be debutantes who asked if he would be dear enough to pour them tea. An hour later found him sitting in front of a mirror as Dorothea showed two other young women how to braid a style so complex he’d have thought it only possible in storybooks. 

In the end, with a prince’s garland of braids worked around his crown, the rest pooling down in a waterfall of loosely entwined waves, he looked—

_The war’s over, Ferdie,_ she’d whispered in his ear as she pinned the final curl in place. _I think you have somewhere to be._

He’d forgotten the wine. The kitchen staff was kind enough to lend him a bottle of something passable, something he promised to replace, and their confused glances didn’t register until he was already halfway down the hall. Was it his wine now as well…? The thought rankled, that he should have untrammeled access to Edelgard’s household, but if there was anyone who knew the logistics and proper protocol of the situation, it would be the Minister of the Imperial Household.

Turning up late with their very own table wine, his collar wet from where Petra had scrubbed out the stains, his hair a historical relic and his suit apparently unworthy of comment; not quite the noble picture of warmth and devotion that he’d been striving for on this. Occasion.

Those failings were not enough to still his hand at his side, however, and he rapped on the door as soon as he reached it. Anticipation drew him onward even as he stood in place, rocking up onto his toes and back to the ground twice before catching the childish reaction and stamping it out. Did he hear footsteps? Would he hear footsteps? Was Hubert so careful in even his own quarters? Of course he was, to consider otherwise would be a frankly inadequate appraisal of the—

The door opened halfway, and Ferdinand’s delight bloomed free. “Hubert!”

Hubert’s eyes flicked over him in their usual clinical sweep, the one Ferdinand once found coldly disparaging but now recognized as a quick check for inconsistencies, for wounds ignored instead of brought to the infirmary, for literal chinks in armor that could not wait another battle for repair. They always returned roughly to his face, tracking his eyes and his mouth for the things he _didn’t_ say. It meant, delightfully, that Hubert never missed it if he smiled.

“Yes,” Hubert answered at length. His voice was harsher than usual, low and gravel-rough, as if he’d spent the day in furious debate instead of skulking about in the watchtowers. “How shocking to find me in my own home.” 

“As promised.” Ferdinand held out the wine bottle in offering, the dark glass vibrant against his white gloves in the low light. He waited for Hubert to, well, not smile in return, but acknowledge him with one of those subtle nods, and to open the door to invite him in. “Sorry for the delay, I was waylaid by the celebrations in the city.” 

Goddess, was there still mud on his boots? Had he remembered to wipe them at the kitchen door?

Hubert’s gaze had never drifted back to his smile, he realized in dawning despair. It hung somewhere to the left of his ear, just above his shoulder, and had darkened into a glower so harsh the back of his neck prickled uncomfortably. It was as if untold enemies lurked in the hallway behind him; he nearly checked. 

The elaborate hairdo was too much of a distraction. Of course Hubert would hate it, see it as needless frippery, just another flaw he had to force himself to look past. With a sigh, Ferdinand reached up to tuck a loose curl back behind his ear, and Hubert abruptly stepped back inside and tossed a hand roughly in the direction of the parlor. 

“I’ll assume that was an invite,” Ferdinand huffed under his breath. He closed the door behind him, surreptitiously checked the bottom of his boots, then strolled into the parlor. “…I’ll also assume you have yet to find the time to redecorate.”

Barren wasn’t the word for the parlor. Only ghastly sufficed. The wallpaper was thirty years out of date, faded and curling at every seam and, worst of all, mint green. The carpeting in one corner looked so hastily installed that he half expected there to be a century-old body under it; clearly Hubert considered it a similar farce, as most of it had already been ripped up from the floor. The hardwood underneath wasn’t bad, and may even suit with a nice gloss, but the matching furniture was all but rotting out under its burdens. Only the fireplace had any charm, burning low and warm within a ring of fragrant branches. No one had lived there in a very long time; they’d likely made use of the emperor’s wing. 

Then there was the mess. Every wooden surface was covered in paperwork, the writing so dense that it was impossible to tell if it was written in code or shorthand or a stunningly abstract art. Ferdinand couldn’t make hide nor hair of it, but he carefully retained the order as he cleared off space on a low table. When Hubert still didn’t reappear, he dragged the table over near the fireplace, pushed back the decrepit armchairs that once occupied the spot, and made himself comfortable on the floor. 

“If you decide to condemn the entire wing, I’d support you,” Ferdinand drawled when footsteps sounded behind him, and he pushed up onto his knees as he turned.

Oh.

Now this was an angle that had occupied his thoughts for quite some time.

Him, on the floor, wide-eyed and ravenous as he gazed up at the man looming before him—except he’d gotten it all backwards, missed the sparks that would kindle in Hubert’s sharp gaze as he went down on knee and then the other, skipped even the chance to have Hubert—oh Goddess no, he was _overdressed!_ Ferdinand had promised an (intimate?) evening of wine and talk, then turned up in his full regalia, while Hubert stood there in his—

It occurred to Ferdinand that he’d never seen Hubert down to his shirtsleeves before, not even in the war, and he could not at all begin to fully comprehend this discovery with the man in question stood right there. _His collar was unbuttoned._ By two buttons! Two!

And Hubert simply stood there, supremely unbothered as Ferdinand’s traitorous eyes swept up—those were riding pants, not his battle jodhpurs, not ministerial slacks, who had _allowed_ this—and up—the white of his shirtsleeves ending, abruptly, because there were no gloves covering those clever ink-stained fingers—and up, to the line of his collarbone just visible through the thin white fabric of his shirt. 

Then, at last, Hubert reached out a hand to take Ferdinand by the chin, just like he’d always pictured it—no wait those were wine glasses dangling in his hand. Right. There was a plan. There was a reason he’d wrestled with this for so long and decided on a different tactic, though at the moment he was having a hard time remembering what that reason was.

Ferdinand didn’t take the offered glasses. He forced his hand to pat the ground aside him, then drummed his fingers, pleading restlessly for what he couldn’t spin into words. “Join me?”

To ask such a thing was almost more obscene than his wandering thoughts. For Hubert to sit at his side when they took their tea and coffee, that was an honor shared, a common dignity. To think Hubert would wish to lower himself like this, in his own home no less, sitting on the ground like a child—it was practically an insult.

Hubert sat anyway, letting his long legs stretched out in front of him, his feet warmed by the low fire. Ferdinand tried not to stare at his socks. 

“The floor is the only piece worth saving of this overblown kindling.” Hubert offered at length, catching hold of the ragged threads of the previous conversation. He shot Ferdinand a sideways smirk, all in the eyes. “Regrettably, it falls to me to inform you… The Prime Minister quarters are worse.”

Ferdinand stiffened. “It would be appropriate, would it not, for the Flame Emperor to burn out all the rot from her dwelling? I shall make the proposal first thing in the morning. I hope you will not fight me on it, just this once.”

“I may be inclined to agreement.” 

“A toast to such miracles as that,” Ferdinand called, reaching for the bottle. 

Within a moment, Hubert had plucked it from his hands, uncorked it, and poured the first round. He took a sniff, then raised an eyebrow.

“It’s the table wine,” Ferdinand blurted at once. “Unfortunately, proper wine pairings are not within my range of expertise. There was, well, a war on. Shortages, rationing, you know.” Or rather, he hadn’t had ten gold in his pocket that wasn’t earmarked for weaponry.

Hubert handed over the glass. “The conversation will pair admirably.”

Promises, promises – all that comment did was shut Ferdinand up entirely. His entire command of the language slipped his grasp. He could, perhaps, communicate in horse whistles. A click of the tongue to urge Hubert onward to the inevitable end of this evening when Ferdinand cast himself into the fireplace in sheer mortification.

It really was a terribly nice little fireplace. Quite homey. He could see Edelgard slipping from her rooms to curl up here in a chair, once they got chairs, and write letters by the fireplace. They would all have so many letters to write. It was nice to have a home of your own to write them in, when your head got turned around by all the people who weren’t next to you anymore. 

Ferdinand frowned, glancing once more at the walls. This wasn’t a home. Never had been. He remembered feeling ill at ease on his childhood visits to Enbarr, and it wasn’t merely out of homesickness for his mother and horses. Hubert had grown up in places like this, in rooms that never belonged to him—had he ever had a home at all? The thought was so dispiriting that Ferdinand had to take a drink. And then another. 

A chilly sigh to his left. “Speak your mind, Ferdinand. You’ve never had difficulty running your mouth before.”

He pressed a thin smile against the rim of his glass, then took another small sip. “You will not allow me my liquid courage first?”

“…Excuse me?”

Ferdinand closed his eyes and tried to tie up all his wandering thoughts like ribbons dancing in the breeze, like Dorothea had braided his hair from wildness into order. He wanted—the warmth of a fireplace instead of a teacup, a name washed clean of a thousand years of subtle abuses, the laughter of all those dear to him, a world actually deserving of the blood they’d spilled for it. For the wickedly clever man at his side to know someone saw him, and didn’t turn away, and didn’t want to be anywhere else, possibly forever. He wanted something as sweet and effortless as a seashore breeze, as well as the time to savor it.

He turned, met the bleak concern in Hubert’s gaze, and tried to summon all of the words he’d so carefully crafted ever since Dorothea set his mind buzzing about the issue. 

“It has occurred to me of late that…this is all your doing.” Ferdinand dragged a finger along the rim of his glass, a few lingering drops of the wine sinking in to stain his fingertips. “We all know you shaped Edelgard’s road for the walking, you are very keen to announce as much at every properly dramatic moment. But I dare say you surveyed the land, drew the maps, plotted the route, shouldered the shovel to dig the trench, cobbled the lot of it before deciding the level was insufficient for her grandeur—”

Hubert tried to look away, and Ferdinand wasn’t having that. He scooted closer and leaned to the side, placing himself between Hubert and the fire he’d tried to glare at instead. 

“—And then you painted it in all that blood you drone on about, and _then_ you embroidered the damn carpet to boot, miles and miles of it. And we’re alive because of it.”

He shrugged it off, but he didn’t stare Ferdinand down. He chose some point in the middle distance instead, like the words were a hallowed offering, not an argument. “I chose this. Anything below perfection is an insult to Lady Edelgard.”

“We mere mortals choose a lot of things. Few of us carry them off with such skill.” 

“Aim higher,” Hubert snapped, and then the strangest thing happened – his expression forgot to shutter to nothingness, and he pinched his brows together instead, as if he had belatedly realized just whom he’d spoken the words to.

Ferdinand laughed at the face and the words both. “I am trying! You see, I want so desperately to thank you. But in what world would you accept such words?” He laughed again, shaking his head, and leaned back on his heels. The fire cast strange shadows before him, shaping his silhouette in delicate brushstrokes that flitted across the walls. He caught Hubert’s gaze again and murmured, “My gratitude must be through action.”

“You act as though you are here to offer your own body as reward,” Hubert grumbled, trying to reclaim their levity.

But Ferdinand only leaned closer, eyes soft. “Would you accept such a thing from me?”

For a moment there was only silence, agonizing and electric, and then the sharp rasp of Hubert drawing in a breath for all the ones he’d just forgotten. 

Ferdinand sat back once more, victorious; so he _was_ a prize worth vying for. He took another drink. “I expect Edelgard’s easy smile is all the reward you ever sought,” he offered slyly, as if they didn’t both know the game by now.

Once more, Hubert wouldn’t look at him. “Quite.”

“So! If you have good will enough in you for this one festive night, I did hope you would indulge me. May I ask a favor?” He continued immediately. “I would like you to gloat. Extensively. Tell me all those strokes of genius you contrived in the dark all these years—absent any details you must conceal, of course—and allow me to toast you and bask in having so clever a mind to strive alongside.”

He had an entire oration prepared to support his argument: as Prime Minister, it was unconscionable for him to turn a blind eye to the inner workings of their nation; he would share nothing, he would swear upon the tombs of his ancestors and his own mother’s heart if his personal honor was insufficient; if the idea of sharing things that Edelgard herself had not heard filled him with loathing, then they could discuss trivialities, the tiny glimpses that were beneath her notice; and because the war was over, but Hubert’s fight wasn’t, and Ferdinand refused to forget that.

At length, Hubert clicked his tongue in subdued displeasure. Something in him had been off-kilter all evening, his barbs dulled and his attention wavering. But all he said was, “I wasn’t aware this was a cabinet meeting.”

Frowning, Ferdinand reached for another sip of his wine. He glimpsed the fine black weave of his own jacket sleeves as he did so. Ah. For all his declarations, he’d still proposed an interrogation while he sat there in uniform. 

Easily solved. He freed the buckle of his belt and tossed it neatly into one of the decrepit chairs nearby. Next came the jacket, one quick column of buttons before he could shrug his way out of it, tugging the sleeves down over his hands. He bothered to fold it, shoulder to shoulder, then added his gloves to the top of the pile. Perfect. 

Nearly perfect, Ferdinand corrected, noting how red Hubert’s face had grown. He grinned at his own brilliance as he reached back to pull one of the pins out of his hair. A solitary lock tumbled out of place. He held the pin out in front of him. 

“A pin for a story?”

For all Hubert’s foreboding reserve, he sat there like a hound who’d scented the mark but lacked his master’s word, prickling with furious intent. “You’ve more pins than hair. I would not risk state secrets on such a poor bet.”

Ferdinand didn’t have a clever response for that. Moment by moment, the weight of Hubert’s gaze smothered him in delightful heat, like a warm cup of tea, and more than anything he wanted to stop thinking through all these games. To tease Hubert like this, to knock him off his firm footing, was a delight. But at the end of the day, he didn’t want these particular reins in his hands.

He reached out and pressed the pin into Hubert’s palm, letting his fingers linger on the bare skin. “Regardless. I’m in your hands.”

-

They ran out of pins before words. 

Ferdinand had turned his back to a man of impossible violence and closed his eyes, given himself over to the hushed stories of bloody capers and murders most foul while his headful of hairpins were teased one by one out of their fortifications. Now and again there would be a touch at his ear, at the nape of his neck, where his skin burned and burned, honest to the last.

Even once the pins were gone, Hubert’s fingers carded through his tresses with breathtaking tenderness, teasing out the ragged remains of his braids, and Ferdinand had never been more jealous of and thankful for Edelgard in his life. That this impossible man considered such a thing routine and not desperately intimate was a prize beyond bearing.

At some point his tired, foolish head tipped backwards into Hubert’s lap—dizzy with the wine they’d barely touched, perhaps—and there it remained. Nobody protested. Ferdinand rested his hands on his stomach and gazed up at the twin stars of Hubert’s eyes, at the soft glow of his pale face in the firelight, the wry traces of humor as he spun his tales, the dark current whenever they hit upon a particularly delectable irony.

Hubert hadn’t exactly fulfilled his request—there were fewer bloody machinations than he expected, but a striking array of characters from his spy network, each one whip-smart and a hassle and a half to manage. It was a little like listening to a kennel master talk about his most successful litters, the ones he’d sold off without sentiment when the price was right. Ferdinand noticed, too, that some of the same names popped up again and again across the decade, and when he did the math he cherished the results: a brooding 13-year-old Hubert who’d conscripted the maids into his personal coterie and lost nary a head in the long years since. 

“A trifling matter. She simply concealed two operatives under her skirts without the guard noticing—”

“Like a petticoat novel!” Ferdinand crowed in pleasure.

“Exactly. Cat loves that pitiful tripe.”

“She should write her own,” Ferdinand declared. Paused. Tried to read the smug laughter tightening the corners of Hubert’s mouth, and had to reach out to feel it with his fingertips. “Wait. Cat as in Catriona?” He’d have shot to his feet in shock if he weren’t so perfectly happy where he was. “As in my nursemaid Catriona?”

“…Ah.”

“Ah, he says. Turning _my_ staff—yes, yes, my father’s,” he waved off Hubert’s correction in favor of further dramatics. “You know, when I went back to close house, I told the staff I hadn’t the coin to pay them and that they’d have to rely on the Empire’s kindness. I _thought_ they were laughing at me! You scoundrel! How many of them were on payroll?”

“All of value.”

“That’s everyone!” He couldn’t stop laughing, his whole body overcome with giddy butterflies. “Miss Catriona, a spy with assassins in her skirt! What happened to her?”

Hubert hesitated, though not long enough for Ferdinand’s heart to drop through the floor. “Transferred her to Brigid. She’ll be in Petra’s staff.”

_With Dorothea,_ Ferdinand thought, sudden tears pricking in his eyes. _So many schemes, and you still think to—_

When Hubert reached to brush a lock of hair away from his neck, Ferdinand caught it up, interlaced their fingers, and pressed a kiss to the back of Hubert’s hand. “Thank you,” he whispered, forgetting himself.

Hubert said nothing, but his fingers squeezed softly at Ferdinand’s, just once, and that was victory enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ferdinand's idea of courtly love is making Hubert sit there consumed by lust all night. Thanks for coming to my TED talk.
> 
> A short coda to follow...


	4. Chapter 4

Ferdinand received his summons at half past noon.

The office was oddly quiet as he knocked and entered. In the field there had always been aides dashing around, reporting to either Edelgard or Hubert, and the creak of wagon wheels and whinnying horses outside. The distant din of training, and on remarkably common occasion, the sharp bark of Caspar hollering his own name. And, Ferdinand supposed, himself, arguing vociferously against whatever fool instruction Hubert had just tossed to a subordinate. At least now he knew they could take care of themselves.

“You’re smiling,” Edelgard said by way of greeting. She didn’t look up from her paperwork.

“You would be too, had you chance enough to see the day. A brilliant sky. Crimson, the dawn.” He clasped his hands behind his back and strolled around to inspect the immaculate office. Already there were portraits hung of her mother and father, and a framed charcoal sketch of Byleth tucked in among the bookshelves. Neat, functional, and oddly personal. A team effort from Hubert and the Professor, perhaps. His own interior decorating quest would need to surpass it.

“Report.”

“The staff hierarchy is drafted. Yesterday had the kitchens in too much of a panic for me to complete the sweep there. I’ll have it for you in the morning.” Ferdinand came to stand in front of her desk and paused, feeling like he’d walked into the wrong office and the Professor should be standing back there to offer him advice on schoolboy woes. He tried standing to the side of the desk instead. Then back behind her shoulder. Then—

_“Sit,_ Ferdinand,” she snapped, but she was smiling too.

With a laugh, Ferdinand pulled the chair up close enough that he could rest his elbows on her desk once he was seated. “Not exactly how I pictured my first day.”

“No?”

Waking up in his shirtsleeves in a strange bed, the sheets cold but a fresh pot of tea and warm biscuits sitting on the table; spending the morning tearing up a carpet that did not, in fact, hide ancestral remains underneath it; bribing a skittish friend to enter what was clearly a haunted suite so she could help him with a redecoration plan…and now sitting in such fond favor with this particular woman in front of him, and all before the age of forty! “No.”

Edelgard signed off on another page with a flourish. “Envelope,” she said, and Ferdinand passed one over before realizing she was teasing. “Do you have time to visit the law school today? I have eight candidates I’d like you to interview. I expect Hubert’s own inquiries to yield little on this matter. I want your gut.”

It should’ve hurt to say, “Of course,” but it didn’t. His father would be prosecuted, not executed. The relief of it had worn off a long time ago. “Cabinet tonight?”

“After dinner. Count Bergliez has family matters.” 

Which meant he’d heard about Caspar and Linhardt’s plan to run off together. Grand.

“Do you have something for me?” Edelgard asked.

Ferdinand raised an eyebrow, his face slipping into its usual grin. “Did Bernadetta already swing by for an imperial pardon? The crime is mine and so shall be the hangman’s noose. I needed her eye for the curtains.”

Edelgard held out her hand.

It only took Ferdinand a moment to pull the exchequer request out of his satchel, as it rested right on top of his papers, ready and waiting. “Funding proposal for a rework of the Household Minister suite.”

“And your own?”

Ferdinand shrugged broadly. “I have a secondary proposal for burning it.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.” She skimmed the document and added her seal. “You’re under budget.”

“Save the remainder for Count Vestra to add some of those fancy cabinets with secret drawers.”

“My, aren’t we formal this morning.” Edelgard met his embarrassed gaze as she passed the bank draft back to him. “That’s all for now. You’ll be hounded soon enough.” 

He rose, bowed, and headed to the door, already plotting his route to the university. Should he take a carriage, or was the Prime Minister permitted to ride his own horse like a messenger boy…? 

“You’re good for him,” she called quietly. 

Ferdinand froze, then whirled, nearly hurling himself off-balance by trying to do both at once. “Excuse me?”

She weighed her words carefully, until his attention was utterly transfixed upon her, and enunciated, “I’m trying to _thank you.”_

“Please,” he choked. One hand clapped over his heart as if he’d been struck by an arrow, and he swayed into the solid weight of the door. “Never do so again.”

Her laughter followed him all the way into the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorothea: Friends, I may be leaving this godforsaken continent, but I have left you one final present. I broke Ferdie and he can't hear the words Thank You anymore. You're welcome.
> 
> I have a lot of ideas for how Ferdie continues his Soft Seduction plot, as well as for this little verse in general, in which everyone hit their A-supports with everyone and they just drag each other along...


End file.
